It's the Future, Watson
by Curreeus
Summary: Holmes and Watson 2009 movie-verse only intended it to be simple - except it was never simple when it came to Holmes' cases. Now, by some strange explosion, they are lost in the London of 120 years to come... their chances of returning are slim.


**Summary:** **Holmes****and****Watson****(2009****movie****verse)****had****only****intended****it****to****be****simple****…****except****it****never****was****simple****when****it****came****to****Holmes'****cases.****Lost****in****the****future,****they****chance****upon****one****of****the****only****people****who****can****help****them****find****their****way****back****to****their****own****time****…****one****of****the****strange****people****walking****around****the****London** **of****nearly****120****years****to****come.**

**Warnings:** **Slight****unintentional****racism****and****sexism,****but****that****is****because****of****Holmes****and****Watson****'****s****time****being****a****racist****and****sexist****place.**

**A/N: This story hasn't been updated in a VERY long time – almost two years. I can't apologise enough for encouraging people into thinking it would be continued, because I started it without really having anywhere to go with it, which was stupid of me. It may be continued, it may not. Most likely not, in the foreseeable future. **

**~oOo~**

They had only planned for it to be a quick round-up and capture of some petty criminals, but it had turned into more. Much more.

As it turned out, the mastermind behind their so called "petty" criminals had made a monumental discovery, unknown to anyone. And Holmes and Watson had become his first guinea pigs.

…

They had been attempting to apprehend the gang of criminals, which had been fleeing towards the intersection of Stamford Street and Waterloo Road, Watson lagging slightly because of his bad leg and Holmes right on the tail of the apparent leader of the small group. Holmes had nearly caught him when, suddenly, the man halted, sidestepped Holmes' lunge, produced a small, ovular, metallic object, made of steel, and had thrown it at Holmes' feet. Watson, unsure whether it was dangerous or not, but assuming so, had leapt on Holmes to pull him out of harms way, only to have the object explode in their faces.

Purple light so pale it was almost white invaded Watson's sight, leaving him temporarily blinded, and leaving his ears were filled with a high pitched squealing sound. The only thing he could feel was Holmes arm, enclosed in his hands – otherwise, a strange sensation had overtaken his body, and he felt as if he were floating. He was unable to sense the presence of the ground beneath him, and felt as if he were simply floating in water, though he could breathe perfectly well and had no supporting force at all on his body.

He had certainly never felt like that before.

He could feel what he thought was a hot wind around him, nearly dislodging his hat. He clapped a hand to his head, still unable to see anything other than what appeared to be pale purple fog that whipped about him with abnormal velocity, rendering him nearly blind. Now, apart from the high pitched noise assaulting his eardrums, he could also hear what sounded like snatches of conversation. Half formed words spoken by people he couldn't see. If he strained his eyes, he could just make out shapes moving ominously just beyond the reaches of the fog.

"Holmes!" He yelled over the cacophony, dragging the man closer to him through the fog, despite his continuing inability to feel sturdy, reassuring ground beneath his feet. His voice was strangely echoing – as if he were yelling down a tunnel. "What was that?"

Holmes, the only thing he was able to properly discern from the swirling purple mass, opened his eyes, which were closed.

"Haven't the foggiest, though I'd say it was some sort of explosive device, wouldn't you?" His tone was sarcastic, despite his apparent disquiet, and his voice echoed also, as well as sounding further away than the actual distance he was. He appeared as confused as Watson, and appeared to be suffering the same effects as he, judging by the fashion in which his limbs were positioned – spread eagled, his toes pointed as if attempting to find the ground with them. Watson knew now that that thing hadn't been an ordinary explosive – had it been filled with some kind of chemical perhaps? If the criminals were trying to render himself and Holmes helpless, they were certainly succeeding.

He had no sooner thought that than the purple swirling fog dissipated, and he and Holmes fell flat on their faces, without as much blood flow as is usually necessary to their legs.

Groaning, Watson pushed his torso up, disconnecting his face from its quick rendezvous with the ground, and then he wrenched open his eyes, which had forced themselves shut. First, he took in the ground beneath him, ignoring the voices and sounds he could hear, not quite trusting his ears as of yet.

The sweet, solid, sturdy, definitely-staying-in-place ground. He'd always taken it for granted.

Then he realised what was on the ground was not cobblestones, flagstones, or indeed any other stones he'd ever seen before. It appeared to be concrete, although its colour and texture wasn't familiar to him. It was definitely not what the ground had been like when he had last seen it.

Slowly, he raised his eyes to his surroundings.

And gasped.

The first thing he noticed was that it was not night, like it had been a few scarce minutes ago, but broad daylight.

The second was that he saw nothing like what he could usually recognize as the busy streets of London. Flopping back so his legs were stretched out in front of him and his arms were supporting him behind, his mouth agape, he observed wherever he'd been dropped.

The buildings, although some of them looked familiar, looked more like symmetrical ( and some not so symmetrical) towers of steel, glass, bricks and whatever substance he was now sitting on, so tall he had to crane his neck to see up them, and then still couldn't see the tops. In the street, (which was not dirt, nor was it cobblestone, as he remembered, but rather paved with a black substance that had the general appearance of tar) he saw strange contraptions, with the appearance of streamlined metal boxes on wheels, racing past with speed that far outstripped that of a trap, even when it was at it's fastest. When they were actually moving at all. There were also people riding what looked like sturdy, heavy, bulky bicycles, without any pedals.

He was shocked to realize that horses were not present at all on the streets. And there were people everywhere.

The first thing that struck him about these people was the way they were dressed. He had assumed (upon a quick glance) most of the people in the street were men, but a slight closer inspection revealed that a large number of them were women – wearing strange forms of trousers. Some wore dresses, but they mainly lacked any sort of application you could call a petticoat, and some wore strange garments that appeared half dress and half shirt.

A lot wore barely anything at all. He had no idea how he'd missed them.

The second thing that struck Watson was how the people talked.

There had been people galore in the London that Watson was familiar with, but they had mostly been English, with the exception of perhaps Americans or tourists. Now, everywhere he looked, there were people of all race and heritage. He could hear English, though mainly cockney, and everything ranging from Scottish to Irish to French to Indian to American, to some speaking in a different language altogether. He could even hear the broad accent of Australians as a group of girls wandered past behind him. They fell silent as he turned to look at them and them likewise, before they looked at each other and burst out laughing at his stunned expression and his old fashioned appearance, and then kept walking.

Everything was so DIFFERENT.

This was London, he was fairly sure. But it wasn't the London he was used to.

This was London in a different age.

Turning slowly to Holmes, who had, unnoticed by the enraptured Watson, donned an identical of his pose, he spoke.

"Holmes…"

Holmes turned to him. Watson's voice was shaking slightly.

"Where are we?"

As soon as the question left his mouth he knew he had phrased it incorrectly. Holmes wasted no time in correcting him.

"I think what you should have asked was WHEN are we, Watson."

Holmes, although he was usually unshakable at times like these, had a quivering voice as well.

Watson sighed, and put his head in his hands. "I hope that there is no way in…BLOODY HELL HOLMES!"

The man in question had leaped up and proceeded to stride across the street, peering curiously at the roadway and its various occupants, with little regard for his own safety, as always. He had one foot on the crowded road when one of the modernized hansoms roared towards him, emitting a loud beeping sound. Watson leaped up and seized a fistful of Holmes' coat, dragging him back to the side of the road, where the doctor promptly tripped on the curb, causing him to fall over and Holmes to land on top of him. Watson wriggled out from under him, and leaned in to speak into his ear.

"Holmes, this obviously isn't the London we know. We need to ask someone and find out exactly what had happened before we attempt to do anything…"

He hauled Holmes to his feet.

"…rash."

They began to turn around, both still in awe of their surroundings. Suddenly, Holmes grabbed Watson's coat-sleeve, yanking him around to point up over their heads.

"Watson! What manner of contraption IS that?"

Watson followed his hand and his eyes widened as he realized that an enormous metal object was arising swiftly into the sky from somewhere to the east of them. He was speechless.

"Holmes…How am I supposed to know?" He snapped.

Holmes shrugged, his eyes still following the path of the thing as it traversed the skyline, his rational mind no doubt trying to figure out the physics, as Watson turned at a tap on his shoulder.

"Excuse me, but are you actors? Or cosplayers?"

The voice belonged to a girl, in her early teenage years, by the look of her, and she was dressed in those strange trousers and a multicoloured shirt with short sleeves. She was one of the Australians from before – her accent was blaringly obvious.

Watson's eyebrows nearly shot into his hairline as he realized she was serious. He had no idea what "cosplayers" meant, but it had to mean something similar to "actors", if it could be used in the same query. He started as he realized she was waiting for a reply.

Her face showed she was nervous, her bottom lip receiving a vigorous chew.

"I'm sorry, but what exactly do you mean?" He replied, giving her an honestly quizzical look.

She smiled broadly at his voice, and then continued.

"Well, you look heaps like, as well as sounding heaps like, er, Holmes and Watson." Observing his utterly shocked expression, she muttered something along the lines of an apology and started to wander away.

Watson, after a split second decision, decided that while someone had paid attention to him and knew his name, he might as well try to glean some other information from them.

"Please…Wait!" called Watson, striding after her and grabbing her shoulder. She turned and jerked away, her hands raised, but she dropped them when he jerked back a step.

"I apologise if this sounds a bit odd, but…what is the date?"

She looked at him with slightly narrowed eyes, but then relayed slowly, as if to someone without their entire collection of marbles: "The 16th of April…"

Watson sighed. "Thank you, but what is the year?"

Her eyes narrowed even more, and she crossed her arms. "2010…look; did you hit your head or something? Or is it all part of the act?"

Watson stood there, the first word of that sentence echoing around in his head.

_2010… nearly 120 years in the future? How is that even possible?_

He hardly felt Holmes' hand as it clapped onto his shoulder. "Watson, old boy, are you sure you're alright? You look pale…"

Watson turned to him, his voice was the only thing solid, the only thing that felt familiar, at this moment, and he smiled absently.

"I am most probably pale Holmes… We're in the year _2010._"

And for once, Holmes appeared to have no access to any of his large vocabulary at all.

...

**I hope I didn't confuse anyone with my descriptions of what I thought modern inventions would look like to 19th century eyes.**

**Dates: This is 2009 Movie verse Holmes and Watson, so that means they came from 1891. Steam-powered cars were patented in 1769, gas-fuelled cars in 1806, and petrol-fuelled cars in 1885, but since none of them appeared in the movie, I just pretended they haven't seen a car before. And the Wright Brothers made their first flight in 1903, so they haven't seen a plane before either... Concrete existed in 1849, so they've seen that, but asphalt was a tricky spot – it had been invented, but had only been used in Paris, Washington DC and New York, So I'm guessing they haven't seen that before either.**


End file.
